The Alternative [Volans]

[Liar]

DateYou can name a date. “And where do you think you’re going?” A robed arm stretched out at the ethaefal, the fist at its end wielding the flailing ropes of a wheatwhip. Whatever this stranger was, the monk who stopped him saw only a creature who, despite his resemblance to a rightful human, wore the twisted horns of a demon or worse. The pale sigil on her robes gleamed in the light of the street’s lanterns as she waved to her brother in honor and called, “Come have a look at what I’ve found!” The swift patter of his approach was sullied by the wet squish of his worn sandals. It had been one of those days: ducking beneath sporadic showers, shuffling through cobblestone puddles between indoor shelters. Dusk had come and gone without ceremony, glaring pale yellow at thick clouds and their miserable grey shadows. Families mumbled prayers for those of their own who must suffer through the damp; painted emblems dripped rainbows onto the slick street, glowing in the faint flicker of surviving streetlamps. Otherwise the world was dark and empty, unseen by sun or moon. The streets were left to the monks and the monsters. And Volans. “It’s dangerous out here, this time of night. Didn’t you know?” The approaching man said, head cocked to one side as if weighted by his power. He looked idly left, then right, then turned his gaze down the road, which ended in a bridge and the giant crevice beneath it. The elbow of his free hand nudged his fellow’s arm. “Where exactly did you come from, horned man?” “Maybe we should put him back where he belongs,” the woman suggested, lifting her armed hand slowly upward. She caressed the ethaefal’s cheekbone with the soft bend of her weapon, then rose it high.

[Volans]

Timestamp: 16th Winter 511 A.V. It had been one of those days. Volans unconsciously took a step back from the monk's warding hand, the horns of grayed amethyst twinkling underneath the flickering gaze of the lanterns. A thousand unsaid curses past between silent lips as his gaze roved across the woman's form, from the sigil on her robes that announced her as a monk of the Bountiful Wheat to the whip in her hand that said the same. It also traveled to the other monk, following the harsh cry of the woman's voice, identifying the threat in unfathomable black depths. It was not the first time Volans had wandered out past dark, but it might very well be the last. Despite the ephemeral thoughts that had shouted caution, he'd found himself unable to resist the allure of Leth's heavenly splendor, and night after night he'd run underneath Him and His heavenbound companions, as though attempting to fly might bring Volans back into His arms. A fanciful thought. And one that might end up with him broken. Or worse... Somewhere in the back of his mind, common sense was reveling in it's victory. "I don't want any trouble..." Volans murmured, his hands coming up in a calming gesture. But he saw the sick gleam in their eyes, the eagerness of their faces, which was sadly so apparent in all the monks of this city. Even Shadekas, who he had thought was different, had admitted to a weakness to fighting; and the two monks in front of him had more than a weakness. They thought him from the Aperture. Volans' lip curled. Look up, not down, he thought darkly, but again no words came from his lips. He attempted one final pleading look at the duo, hoping beyond hope they might let him go free. The wheatwhip tickled his cheek... And Volans turned and ran. He steeled himself for the white-hot lash of the whip across his back, as he knew he wouldn't be out of range before it landed. He was familiar with the Southern Quarter and their ways, and the wheatwhip's lash had been felt before...and it seemed it would be felt again. Still Volans tried to run, tried to evade the whip and the demons that wielded it.

[Liar]

In flight, some decisions must be made without the use of one’s head. In those moments, adrenaline conquers all; reflex moves in place of reason and instinct makes choices that a mind cannot. Some would argue that panicked mindlessness opens a person to the subtler, stranger forces of the world. Perhaps that innate wisdom is what led Volans into an alley that could have been a dead end, and turned out not to be. As the many whips of Skerr’s wrath licked at the ethaefal’s back, the squish of sopping sandals were already darting into the pursuit. Her weapon fell to her side and she watched the two men recede for an instant, hastily analyzing their progress through the eyes of anticipated victory. And then she followed, skirting swiftly down the long road and into a different alley. She hoped to trap him in the maze behind the shops and houses, but first she had to find him. Her fellow, on the other hand, kept close behind his prey. He managed to grab hold of a wad of fabric where he meant to reach flesh, but he lost it just as quickly. In the face of his failure, he waved his own weapon out in front of him, clumsy but close. It, too, failed to reach its target. He loosed a candid groan. “Only guilty men run!” He cried, and his voice reverberated between the shadowed walls like a thousand separate taunts. But there was a light glowing from behind the next turn. It shone dim, but promising; it dared to challenge the dank darkness, turning puddles into liquid glass. It was the only street lantern around, and it hung from the façade of a soft, run-down building, illuminating a plain, unlabeled door. The door would open eventually to any request to enter, but neither was it locked.

[Volans]

Now and forevermore, he is... ...the one who dwells in the recesses of night. Volans grimaced slightly as he felt the hot sting of the wheatwhip across the contours of his back, but didn't stop moving. The distilled liquid of rainwater splashed across and over his feet as he ran, not evading the myriad swamp of puddles in his attempt to get away from the monks. Once he felt a coarse hand blindly reach out and grab at his shirtsleeve as he rounded the corner of the alley, but it was gone in another moment just as quickly. The disappointed monk loosed a holler after him, but blood was pounding in Volans's ears and he couldn't hear what it was. The only thing he heart was the fierce thump of his heart. A light glimmered in the distance, and like a drowning man reaching for a rope he angled towards it without thought. Blindly, exquisitely aware of the pounding sandals echoing closely behind them. In his mindlessness he did not even attempt to knock; instead, he grasped at the handle, praying to Leth and every other God he knew that it would give. And it did. Quickly, before the monks caught up, Volans opened it and thrust himself inside. For a moment he simply lay there, not seeing anything but darkness. In another moment he had lunged back up, slamming the door shut and looking for a way to shut it. If he found a bar or some sort of lock he was quickly engage it. Only then would Volans turn around and try to determine where the hell he had run into.

[Liar]

For a long moment, the threat of the outside world loomed through the open door. Two pairs of feet met in that back alley, and a woman’s voice called out some unintelligible syllable. But then the lock turned, and the world grew still. Where darkness prevailed, the sweet scent of herbs and old wood swam to the front of the ethaefal’s senses, tried fruitlessly to cast away the stench of his blood and the pain in his back. Muffled bickering could be heard from outside the black sanctuary, and then the soft tap of footsteps from inside... She was in a robe; he could see that much in the light of the candle she held, as she stepped carefully down the stair. The wisp of flame might have been a glimmer of hope or a promise of betrayal. “Hello,” it seemed to say, a ventriloquist for the woman’s curiosity. “Hello, who is there?” When she reached the bottom, she knew where to move through the room’s organized chaos to light a hanging bowl of oil with the slant of her candle. Undulating illumination scattered over the room and its many contents, dancing over Volans’s face where the woman’s was cloaked in shadow. She set down her tray and stared quietly at the staggering man for a moment. “You are hurt,” she observed from afar, then glanced from a shelf of fresh herbs to the door behind him. “You are safe here, stranger. Their fear protects you.” Glinting in the firelight, her eyes fell again, lingering on the brilliant violet strength that crowned the soft, pale creature at her feet. She stepped toward him and bent at the waist, holding out an open hand. The fingers were smooth but decisive, and smelled like sage. “What is your name, moon-child?” As an afterthought, she added, “You may call me Ren.”

[Volans]

The staccato beat of her thumping heart continued to prevail in the darkened silence, cut in half only once when the woman outside spoke something in a low, muttered voice. His voice caught then; but as silence once again gained momentum and it became apparent they weren't going to step inside, his breathing picked up its regular tempo.

It stopped again as he heard footsteps, a half-crawl, half-scatter rapidly turning him around to face this new threat. It was then that he heard whoever carried the flame speak...and the first thing he noticed was the voice was female. Not cruel like the monk, but female in a calming and almost motherly way.

Even though his first reaction had been to flee, he found words coming from his mouth as though someone else spoke for him. "A friend is here, at least if your intent is good." he paused for a beat. "I'm just looking for a place to hide for a moment."

She wore a robe; was she friend or foe?

He trembled and almost made to flinch away as the woman touched him, but some indistinct emotion stayed his movement. He gasped in pleasure as the herbs were set against his skin, the inflaming sensation the whips had delivered onto him already starting to fade away. "Thank you." he said simply, making to straighten up after she had finished her work.

"I am called Volans." he spoke with a gracious tongue, but wariness still dwelt in his eyes. He took an unnoticed step back, out of the corona of light emanating from the candle. Darkness returns to darkness. "Where are we, Ren? Why would the monks be afraid of..." he gestured around in the gloom, unable to place the word was looking for- "...here?" he finally managed.

[Liar]

“The Nine Staves,” Ren answered, clutching her robe against the cold. It seemed brown in that light, but it was supposed to be red; it was only meant to cover the bedclothes she had been sleeping in, when she heard a commotion at the door. She turned to the table again, giving the poor man room to stand. Her eyes strayed to his feet, where they stepped out of the light, and she pushed the candle stand to the other end of the table, lighting the shelves on the far wall. “My herbs are for your spirit,” she admitted. “Not your wounds. I am no substitute for the scientists in the Celestial Square. Take a seat, will you?” Ren gestured to the nearest chair, leaning against the table. The fickle firelight made her smile seem less friendly than it was. She turned towards the shadows in the corner, an attempt to oblige his sense of safety, his desire to be recoil. “This is not a place to hide, but a place to find. Too many are blind to it. There is nothing to fear here, except for rumors and fantasies.” Looking back to him, she added, “Those monks give me more credit than I deserve. They dislike me because I challenge them. One of these days, it will be the end of me.” It seemed a laugh was imminent, but this woman was not one to take truths lightly. Volans could draw whatever conclusions he liked, but Ren was not interested in her own story. There was a reason he was here; there was always a reason. “Why do they fear you, Volans?”

[Volans]

"The Nine Staves..." Volans repeated in that infuriatingly convalescent way of his. "...Never heard of it, I'm afraid."

Volans stood up straight, a sudden shiver of pain going down his back when the woman mentioned herbs weren't medicinal. "Shouldn't have said that," he muttered regretfully, "Now the illusion has been broken..." he winced in some minor twinge of hurt. He was yet strong enough to take a seat as the woman, Ren, commanded though.

Sitting there, he felt exposed, almost trapped in a way. Ren almost seemed to know this; his opal lenses followed her across the room, noting her chaste gaze with appreciative modesty. He listened to her speak about her shop, this Nine Staves, without saying anything, though her vague answers compelled him to speak up in question.

But he had long since learned the value of keeping silent.

When she asked him why they feared him, a sad, rueful smile affixed itself on his face and a light hand touched the horns that spiraled elegantly from his brow. "It's because of this, of course." Volans replied. "They cannot understand me and thus they fear me. Such is the fate of ignorant men - and, women. I have long since come to terms with it."

The questions that had bubbled on his lips, freed by his newfound voice, came spewing forth. In particular: "What does one find in this place, exactly?"

[Liar]

Ren sighed. It was a typical response, and yet she dreaded to hear it. There were excuses to be made for the monks of Nyka; they were as protective as they were vicious, and what they lacked in honor they compensated in strength: physical, emotional, political, religious. But she would not give such words to a man who had suffered their abuse. Instead, she nodded and clasped her hands. “I am sorry about your pain,” she said distractedly, hesitantly. “I promise, at least, that I you will probably not keep scars... however valuable they are.” A pause in the apology made the candles seemed to sway a little quicker. She was stuttering silently, apparently debating whether she should continue. Finally she added, “You... should never pretend to trust a thing that isn’t real, if you know it isn’t. There are too many uncertainties in the world. You must seek out the definite and the true, and make them into the stars that guide you.” Her fingers had balled into fists as she spoke, and only when she was done did she realize she had said too much, had taken his apprehensive optimism and turned it into something rhetorical. The realization skewed her face and hung on her drooping jaw as she reconsidered his words. She crossed the room again, pulled out a chair for him and bid him to sit with a patient wave of her hand. Ren would only take a seat after he had his. “Here at the Nine Staves, we try to find the truth in the uncertainty. It is a difficult task, but I think it is the noblest. Many come to our door when they have nowhere else to turn, some who do not know who we are and some who think they do, and are afraid of it.” She peered at him a moment, then reached for a drawer beside her. From it, she produced a stack of tarot cards. She pushed it to the center of the table, because it was the real answer. She looked at him closely, watching for whether he would balk, or question her further, or simply split it himself and begin the reading. She made her guess in the back of her mind, but all she said was, “You are not afraid; I can tell.”

[Volans]

Now and forevermore, he is... ...the one who dwells in the recesses of night. He watched her throughout the entirety of her eulogy, unwavering eyes as dark as the night he craved left unmoved. The lights of the myriad candles set forth danced in the eyes' depths, illuminating a thousand facets of emotion that were both good and bad. Hope, desperation, strength and fear; there were a thousand underlying idiosyncrasies dwelling in his blank stare. Her words became knotted, slow, and finally stopped as she realized what she had said. She looked at him, and him her. And then, at long length, words of a different kind were uttered. "I see." And in a way, he did and in a way, he didn't. Ren's words were rhetorical and any worth gained from them depended on the listener's perception of such. To Volans it was another sign that he must make his own path, that he must not trust Him to guide him every step in the way. The fractured resolves was given new glue, bound together by this strange woman's words. Ren had reassured Volans in a way that was at once wholly unexpected and wholly needed. A hint of a smile danced across Volans's face as he took the seat, hooking another with his foot to pull it out and offer to Ren herself. This time after Ren had spoken, Volans had more to say. "Finding the truth in uncertainty must be very hard indeed. So many people rely on faith...faith in the unknown, faith in what they know is right, faith in their Gods. And while faith can be - is - good, it can also limit thinking. But I think you already know this." Here he stopped. The tarot deck had been brought forth, and it was followed by a lingering gaze. A finger twitched and Volans leaned forward, some unknowable feeling drawing his muscles taunt. For a long time, nothing was said. And then: "No...I am not afraid." The fingers began to move, quickly now. The deck was caught under a resolute hand and brought to bear. It was split and then split again. "Let's begin." The shuffled cards were set back down on the table. An undiluted eye turned to Ren to see what she would do, even as a pale forefinger played with the edge of the top card. But who was this reading for? Him, or her? "...The first card." Volans simply uttered, and then he flipped the card over. OoCI left it up to you to see what Volans draws, if you don't mind.